“Fine. Why don’t we make a list of what you’ll need.”
“I already have a list.”
I knew what Rhonda was thinking. Here goes Lux again, just throwing things together and hoping for the best. That was how I lived my daily life, from hour to hour, paycheck to paycheck. This was the only Lux she knew. I wanted to show her another side of me.
“I’ve been planning this for months, you know,” I said.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Well—good,” she said. “Good for you.”
I walked around the table and threw my arms around her. “Admit it. You love me.”
“No.”
“Yes. You love me. Silly, flighty me.”
Rhonda tried to squirm out of my grasp, but she grinned. “Don’t ask me to come rescue you if you get lost.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t take my peanut butter. Buy your own.”
“Okay.”
I’d already packed her peanut butter.
I did go into Benno’s room at midnight. I did lie down on his bed and bury my face in his pillow and inhale his sweet boy scent. I fell asleep in five minutes.
Rose Bennedeti and Doro Balakian were my landlords, the owners of 428 Elizabeth Street, a shabby (“in need of some attention but a grand old lady,” said the ad I’d answered in the classifieds) four-unit Victorian in Noe Valley. A lesbian couple in their seventies, they occupied the top-floor flat. We lived on the second floor, the Patel family (Raj, Sunite, and their daughter, Anjuli) lived on the first, and Tommy Catsos, a middle-aged bookstore clerk, lived in the basement.
I loved Rose and Doro. Every Saturday morning, I’d go to the Golden Gate Bakery to get a treat for them. When I rang their bell, the telltale white box in my hands, Rose would open the door and feign surprise.
“Oh, Lux,” she’d say, hand over her heart. “A mooncake?”
“And a Chinese egg tart,” I’d answer.
“Just what I was in the mood for! How did you know?”
This Saturday was no different, except for the fact that the two women wore glaringly white Adidas sneakers and were dressed in primary colors, like kindergartners. They were in their protesting clothes.
“We’re going to City Hall. Harvey’s”—Doro meant the activist Harvey Milk; they were on a first-name basis with him—“holding a rally, and then there’s to be some sort of a parade down Van Ness. Come with us, Lux.”
“We shall be out all day, I would think,” said Rose.
Rose and Doro were highly political, tolerant, extremely smart (Doro had been a chemist, Rose an engineer), and believers in everything: abortion rights, interracial marriage, and the ERA. Why not? was their creed.
“You’ll join us, of course,” said Doro.
I frequently gave up my weekends to march, picket, or protest, dragging Benno along with me. I believed in everything, too.
I put the bakery box on the counter. “I can’t. I’m going on a camping trip.”
“Oh, how wonderful!” said Doro. “Good for you, Lux. A Waldenesque sojourn into nature.”
“Would you like to bring a little …?” asked Rose. She put her thumb and index finger to her mouth and mimed inhaling.
“You smoke?”
“No, dear, we don’t partake, but we like to have it for our guests. Shall I get some for you?”
I wasn’t a big pot smoker.
“Just one joint,” said Doro. “You never know.”
Only in San Francisco would an old woman be pushing pot instead of a cookie and a nice cup of tea on you.
“All right,” I agreed.
“Marvelous!” they both chimed, as if I’d told them they’d just won the lottery.
I’d purchased five Snoopy cards from the Hallmark store to send to Benno in Newport. I didn’t want to overwhelm him or make him homesick. I just wanted him to know I was there. Filling them out was a surprisingly difficult task. I was going for breezy, with an undertone of Mommy loves you so much but she did not sleep in your bed last night. Here’s what I came up with:
Benno, I hope you had a great day!
Benno, Hope you’re having a great day!
Benno, I’m sure you’re having a great day!
Benno, Great day here, I hope it was a great day there, too.
Benno, Great day? Mine was!
I asked Rhonda to mail a card each great day I was gone.
I wanted to camp somewhere I hadn’t been before. I chose Sonoma, about forty miles from San Francisco. Wine country. Also referred to as the Valley of the Moon. When I read about it in my guidebook, I knew this was where I would go. Who could resist a place called Valley of the Moon? It was an incantation. A clarion call. Just saying it gave me goosebumps.
It was the Miwok and Pomo tribes who came up with the name Sonoma. There was some dispute as to whether it meant “valley of the moon” or “many moons” (some people claimed the moon seemed to rise there several times in one night), but that wasn’t important. What was important was that the Valley of the Moon was supposed to be enchanting: rushing creeks and madrones, old orchards and wildflowers. The perfect place to lose myself. Or find myself. If I was lucky, a little of both.
By the time I’d finished packing, it was just after noon and 428 Elizabeth Street was empty. Rose and Doro were still at the rally, Tommy was working, Rhonda had taken the bus across the bay to visit with her family, and the Patels had gone off for a picnic in the park. I threw my pack in the trunk of my car and hit the road.
An hour and a half later, I pulled into the parking lot of Jack London State Park.
I relied on instinct out in the woods; I depended on my gut. I could have made camp in a few places, but none of them was just right. Finally I found the perfect spot.
The scent of laurel and bay leaves led me to a creek. I trekked up the bank to a small redwood grove. Sweat dripped between my shoulder blades. I was in my element; I could have gone another ten miles if needed. I dropped my pack. Yes, this was it. The air smelled of pine needles and cedar. The clearing felt holy, like a cathedral. I punched my arms in the air and hooted.
I experienced the absence of Benno (not having to hold him as a fact in my mind every minute) as a continual dissonance. I had to remind myself: He’s not here. He’s okay. He’s with Mom. I hoped the shock would lessen as the days went on and that I’d not only acclimate to the solitude, but relish it. Nobody needed me. Nobody was judging me. I could do or act or feel however I wanted.
I peeled off my sweaty tank top. I stood there for a moment, bare-chested. It was warm now, but once it got dark the temperature would drop. I draped the tank top over a bush to dry and put on a clean T-shirt.
I pitched my tent. Beside my sleeping bag went The Hobbit, a pocket-size transistor radio, Doro’s joint, a book of matches, and a flashlight.
For dinner I ate two Slim Jims and some peanut butter. By this time the woods were purpling with dusk. I crawled into my sleeping bag. In the pages of The Hobbit I’d tucked the Polaroid of Benno and me. I kissed my fingers and pressed them on his image. Good night, sweet boy.
I